Reese’s words about burning me out come back to me and I’m sick to my stomach again. What kind of horrible metamorphosis am I undergoing? I try to push the thoughts aside and conjure up a second hot chocolate. Nauseated or not, I have to keep eating or I’m going to be in big trouble.

Twelve minutes pass by the time Benson slips back into the car, and I’ve gone through five cartons of fries and both cups of hot chocolate. The smell of the burgers fills the air, and I push the magic fries off my lap and onto the floor in my hurry to reach for the two to-go bags.

“Watch it, Tave!” Benson gasps as fries scatter everywhere. “This is a Beemer!”

Such a guy. “Gone in five minutes,” I remind him. “Grease stains and all.”

“Well, these ones are real,” Benson says grudgingly. “So be careful.”

I take a second to spread some napkins on my lap before unwrapping my humongous hamburger and taking a big bite. We munch silently for a long time as I slowly feel my system start to stabilize.

“That was a really good idea,” I say when I get a moment to take a breath. “I’d have blacked out before we got here for sure.”

“And I don’t even want to think about how I’d try to explain that to some stranger who saw us on the side of the road,” Benson says grimly.

“No kidding,” I murmur. We eat a while longer. “Thank you.”

“It’s just food,” he replies with a grin.

“No, seriously.” I turn to face him fully. “Thank you for everything. Not freaking out, believing me even when I sound crazy; everything, Benson.”

“You’re welcome, I guess,” he says, and I can’t help but notice there’s a smear of mustard just above his lip.

I smile and reach a finger out to wipe it off. “You missed a spot,” I whisper when his eyes darken—no, deepen—pinning me to my seat in a flutter of nerves and delight. He reaches for my hand and lifts my fingers to his lips, kissing each one briefly.

“Thank you,” he whispers, with an intensity I don’t understand but revel in. I hide my sappy grin behind my sandwich and we both finish our meal in silence.

When my food is gone and I’m so full I’m just on this side of being uncomfortable, I wipe the oil off my hands and reach for Quinn’s journal while Benson finishes.

“Listen to this,” I say, pointing to a short passage. “Of the brotherhoods trust ye the Curatoria but tenuously, and the Reduciata not at all. Give none of them your secrets. Above all, tell the Reduciata nothing of Rebecca. If you know her whereabouts, deceive them.” I think about Elizabeth blurting out that name—Reduciata. “Who do you think the Reduciata are?”

“No clue,” he says around a big bite.

“Must be someone bad,” I say, flipping another page. “Reese and Elizabeth were worried Quinn was a … Reduciate? That must be what they call their members.” I point at that paragraph. “I have a feeling he wasn’t.”

“Sounds like this Rebecca chick was in some serious trouble,” Benson says, peering over my shoulder.

“Quinn too. It’s got such old-fashioned wording—I’m going to have to read it carefully—but he talks about storing the gold to brace against disaster, and here, running to ground like a hare in the hunt.” I pause as a sinking feeling hits my heart. “Sounds like us, doesn’t it?”

“Sadly.”

“He says not to trust the Curatoria, but from what I can tell, it’s the Reduciata they’re always running from.” I pause, mulling the name over in my head. “Reduciata; it sounds kinda like Illuminati. Maybe they’re both secret societies trying to … I don’t know, run the government?”

“Wasn’t much of a government back then,” Benson says. “Or at least not much of a United States. Not yet.”

“True. But I don’t think they were just based in the United States. Look.” I tilt the book toward him. “You can see a drawing of a pyramid here, and the ankh symbol is from ancient Egypt.” I read that section, trying to make sense of Quinn’s old-fashioned prose. “It looks like the Reduciata and the Curatoria were behind all the pharaohs of ancient Egypt—fighting to be the one in true control. It says the pyramids were built to hoard their belongings, kinda like Rebecca and Quinn’s dugout.”

“That sounds a little far-fetched. People took their myths pretty seriously back then, though.”

“Well, that is what they did with the pyramids, right? Filled them full of the pharaohs’ belongings? They would even bury servants alive in there.”

“Yeah, but … the pyramids, really?”

My fingers hesitate at the bottom of the page. “The pyramids. Benson, the pyramids are triangles. Triangles that face all four directions.”

“I’m … not following,” Benson says, sounding almost wary.

“The Curatoria and the Reduciata have symbols; doesn’t it seem like the Earthbound would too? It’s got to be the triangle. That’s why Reese said the triangle changed everything. Think about it. If you were an ancient Egyptian and you saw someone do the things I can do, what would you do?”

“Stone him?” Benson suggests.

I smack his shoulder. “Or make him your leader. In fact,” I add on, grinning as the idea occurs to me, “you might decide your pharaohs are gods. Even though they really aren’t,” I tack on quickly. “I think it makes total sense.”